


Can't Believe I Never Noticed My Heart Before

by queenklu



Category: Inception (2010) RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-17
Updated: 2014-04-17
Packaged: 2018-01-19 17:16:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1477675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenklu/pseuds/queenklu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom’s heart isn’t on his sleeve. It’s on his wrist, right over the pulse point, blue veins threaded through beneath his skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can't Believe I Never Noticed My Heart Before

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kellifer_fic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kellifer_fic/gifts).



> Soooooo. LAST YEAR the lovely, wonderful, and exceedingly patient [kellifer_fic](http://kellifer-fic.livejournal.com/profile) won me in the AO3 fundraising auction. (I'm soooooooo sooooorrrrryyyyyyy this took sooooooooo looooooooooooonnnnnngggggg). Other than slow-build and oblivious boys she let me run where ever my heart desired, and my heart apparently desired some magic realism. Idk. 
> 
> Bajillions of thanks to Leupagus for beta-ing <333 Everyone else, feel free to let me know if there are typos, I have looked at this fic so much I can't even see it anymore. 
> 
> Title from [Noticed](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eBefgm7hdpU) by Mutemath, which I HIGHLY RECOMMEND as accompaniment to this fic.

 

Tom’s heart isn’t on his sleeve. It’s on his wrist, right over the pulse point, blue veins threaded through beneath his skin. The shape is more anatomical than not, though he did date a doctor once who moued and frowned over it but couldn’t seem to find the words to say what’s particularly…off about the shape. Not with Tom’s heart wiggling under her gaze, anyway.

Her heart was on her shoulder, and faintly glowed when she tanned in the Moroccan sunrise. He thinks that was their problem, in the end—her heart loved the sun, and his didn’t know what it loved at all.

It drifts, sometimes. All hearts do. Low on his waist, and it stayed long enough that he was sure it would stick, so sure he marked the place with “TIL I DIE SW,” figuring the golden glow of a heart in love would stay forever. Sometimes he still wakes up with the phantom ache of it, where his heart used to be.

As far as visible places go, his wrist is not half bad—poor Leo wears his heart on his face some nights, right in the middle of his forehead. He’s taken to wearing hats at awards ceremonies so reporters can’t chronicle the blooming bruises across his heart every time he doesn’t win.

~*~

The first time Tom sees Joe’s heart it’s by accident, two weeks into filming _Inception_. It never crosses his mind that Joseph doesn’t have a heart—only mythic beings go without, even the most twisted criminals bear shriveled bits of mold and dust where their hearts should be—but he’s started idly wondering if it’s hiding someplace scandalous. More likely it’s someplace naturally covered; it’s not as if Joe makes a habit of skimming down to his knickers in places where Tom has a good view.

_Left arse cheek_ , Tom thinks wishfully as he eases back in his chair, Eames’ face on and cameras rolling while he watches Arthur fiddle with his silly moleskine. _Inner thigh?_

He tries to shake the thought off without being too noticeable. Only once did Tom meet someone with his heart on his inner thigh and it had been the best sex of Tom's life, bar none.

Too far. Idle speculation about a costar’s bedroom skills is one thing—hell, he’s even thought about it with Michael Caine, if he’s honest (though he suspects it would involve a lot of whimpering and shameless crying—on Tom’s part)—but comparing anyone to the best sex he’s ever had is a terrible idea. Especially since he has no plans to sleep with Joseph at all.

Nolan calls cut for the end of the scene just then, and before Tom can resurface from his memories Joe rounds on him, pen flicking against his moleskine.

“What’s that look on your face?” he asks, and Tom blinks at him, pure innocence.

“Hm, sorry, what look?” Tom stretches, heavy watch slipping against the steady thump of his heart. “Do you perhaps mean the Arthur-you’re-stunning-in-your-intellectual-capacity-as-the-best-point-man-the-world-has-ever-known look, the one I spent all morning perfecting in the mirror?” He grins.

Joe looks a bit flustered, but then Tom is talking utter nonsense. “Uh, it doesn’t come across that way,” is what he says on an exhaled laugh, fingers tugging at the stiff, starched collar that must be strangling him, and Tom sees it—his heart. Not on his neck, but just the edge of it peeking from his hairline behind his ear.

“Is that—” Tom starts, quite stupidly. Even seeing no more than the tip of it, it’s clearly a heart, red and healthy, precisely edged. Joe blinks at him, and even though Tom knows he shouldn't, what comes out next is: “Behind your ear? That’s an interesting place to keep it.”

“Oh,” Joe says, hand flying up to cover it, as if it were a nip slip instead of a perfectly normal heart. “No, it’s, I—sometimes when I’m acting it sneaks up onto my head. Under my hair. It’s, uh, a habit from _3rd Rock_ , my hair was…a lot longer then.”

He nods, seriously, as if Tom was asking about his exercise routine.

“The makeup artists must adore you,” Tom says, “That paste they use when they can’t hide it under giant watches…” He trails off with a shudder. The paste is vile, has to be thick and tacky to hide any accidental glow that might be picked up by the cameras.

“Take lunch everyone,” Nolan says, applauding whatever he saw on the monitors. “Good job, good job.”

Tom heaves a sigh of relief, removes the watch as he stands and feels instantly better—always a strange sensation when he hadn’t been aware he’d been less-than-better before. Like lifting a bag off your head before you realize you’ve started to run out of air.

“Oh,” Joe says, sounding caught, even though Tom doesn’t realize right away just what it is he’s caught Joe doing. “Sorry,” Joe says clearing his throat, shaking his head, faintly pink around his ears. “Sorry, I just—I like your heart.”

Tom drags a thumb over one corner where his heart is a frayed quilt of stitched-togetheredness, the worn-through bits with patches sewn on. He doesn’t know if anyone outside of the darkest recesses of the internet has ever said they like the look of it before. No one has said as much to his face, in any case, wouldn’t—not as bashed and tarnished as it is. On top of that, it’s not polite to comment on the state of another person’s heart. The closest Tom can think of for comparison is complimenting someone’s breasts. Except more personal. Emotional breasts.

But no one has ever accused Tom of being a prude. He likes that Joe likes it. It took a lot of work to get it in this shape.

And, well, he _was_ pushing the boundaries a bit bringing up Joe’s heart in the first place. Tom is shit at rules.

“Cheers,” Tom says, and doesn’t mean to sound bewildered, “It’s a bit battered around the ventricles, but I’m rather fond of it.”

Joe keeps shaking his head, looks like he wants to kick himself, looks like he might try if Tom doesn’t do something to distract him. “Are you going out with Marion’s crew later?” Tom asks. “I heard she’s found a late night café that only serves tiramisu and chai.”

Marion keeps her heart in the tips of her fingers; everyone she touches falls a little bit in love with her, for a little while. This does not explain how she finds the best cubbyhole restaurants in every city she steps foot in—Tom suspects witchcraft.

“Um,” Joe says, dragging out the word, “Maybe.”

“The last one I skipped Dileep wound up in tears over a curry.” Tom huffs a little through his nose. “Bastard still won’t tell me where the shop is.”

Joe won’t meet his eyes, but there is a smile curling in the corner of his mouth that wasn’t there before. “Well,” he says, “I do love a good chai.”

“Of course you do, you sodding hipster,” Tom teases, maybe a little too familiar but, well, they’ve commented on each other’s hearts now, that must count for something. They've been _friendly_ the last two weeks; surely it's not impossible for them to become friends.

“We could grab dinner before,” Joe says through a frown that doesn’t seem directed toward anyone in particular. “I mean,” he adds, blinking as he shifts his gaze back to Tom. “Do you want to?”

Tom shrugs expressively like he needs to weigh his options, says, “Eh, alright,” and grins.

~*~

“Out with it, Joseph,” Tom says, kicking Joe under the table of their tiny corner booth, nestled in the back of a small Italian eater popped right out of the 1920s. Apparently Frank Sinatra held several concerts in the basement. This might be the best lasagne Tom has ever had in his life. And Joe keeps opening his mouth and shutting it, and if he does it one more time Tom might have to sacrifice the last bite of his own heavenly pasta by shoving it into Joe’s gob.

“Joe,” Joe corrects him, probably for the tenth time. Tom smiles, showing his crooked teeth, prepared to wait. Joe huffs a long sigh. “It’s just. What did you mean when you said that my head was an interesting place for my heart to be?”

He folds his arms across his chest, and Tom wonders if it’s just the light or the way Joe’s holding himself that makes his frame look narrow.

“I meant,” Tom says as he sits back a bit, taking his time to answer right. “Hm. Well I suppose I meant I’ve never seen one there before, but I probably wouldn’t have, would I? With people generally, you know, having hair.”

“Oh,” Joe says, mouth twisting a little, not quite disappointment. He drags a hand back through his hair, long fingers tugging at the dark strands of Arthur’s professional cut. “Man, I’m sorry,” he says on an exhale, “I tend to—way overanalyze. I’ve been trying to train myself out of it, you know, not be so fucking hypercritical all the time. Doesn’t always work.”

“Also,” Tom adds as an afterthought, “I suspect keeping your head and heart close to each other symbolizes an inherent need to overanalyze situations in a way that might seem…hypercritical, shall we say?”

Joe stares at him. But then he does laugh, which was the goal. “You’re a dick,” he says, but he sounds pleasantly surprised. He has dimples, Tom realizes—Tom’s heart gives a startled thump against his wrist.

“Guilty as charged,” Tom says as he sets his fork down, wrist pressed to the tablecloth. This is the problem with his heart lingering there, so easy to see—this is why he usually wears a handful of bracelets, loose enough to let it breathe, cluttered enough to give it some shelter from prying eyes. But Eames’ watch had felt stifling the whole day; his wrist is bare, now, and twinging with the echoes of that thump.

“Is it my turn?” Joe asks, leaning forward. He would blame alcohol for the way Joe’s movements seem more fluid, relaxed, but Joe stuck with water out of solidarity even though Tom told him he doesn’t mind (mostly) when people drink around him.

“Hm?” Tom asks when he realizes Joe has said something and Tom got distracted by the shape of his mouth.

“Is it my turn to make grand assumptions about where you keep your heart?” Joe elaborates. “I mean, only if you’re okay with it.”

_Is he really asking permission to give as good as he’s got?_ Tom thinks wonderingly, fool head already nodding. He turns his arm over because it would look stranger not to.

His heart is very, very dimly…well, Tom wouldn’t call it a glow. More like a dull shine. Tom finishes his last bite left-handed.

Joe keeps his eyes politely averted, dramatically wiggling his fingers in the air over Tom’s wrist like a fortune teller with a crystal ball.

“Hmmmmm,” he says, and again, “Hmmmmmm. _Libra!_ ”

“Virgo,” Tom huffs, helplessly charmed.

Joe drops back into his seat grinning, apparently satisfied. “Alright, alright,” Tom tells him, hands briefly up before he drops them in his lap, “You’ve made your point.”

“No, I,” Joe starts, dropping his gaze back to his empty plate. “I think it’s a really brave place to keep your heart.”

It’s not really a choice, but…Tom nods his thanks. Joe is saying he’s brave. It’s a fairly bold thing to say to someone you’ve only known for a few weeks, a work colleague and maybe a tentative friend.

Tom wishes he had lasagne left on his plate, just for something to do with his mouth other than blurting out, “So…where do you normally keep yours?” He asks the table, looks up at Joe only after, accidentally through his lashes.

Joe looks a little surprised, and then a little embarrassed, glancing around the restaurant scattered with people who may or may not know who they are. It’s an old fear, a tired one, but Tom wonders if he’s about to be let down gently, if he even meant to sort-of flirt with Joe in the first place.

But all Joe does is shake his head. “It’s, well, I can’t show you here,” he says, leaning in to help carry his lowered tone.

“On your arse, then,” Tom deadpans with a commiserating twist of his mouth. “Terrible.”

“No,” Joe says, adding a half-serious quelling glare a second too late. “I’m not flashing you before the check.”

Tom feels a little gobsmacked, because—that surely _is_ flirting, isn’t it? So it doesn’t matter if Tom meant it before, Joe must mean it now.

_Do I mean it_? Tom wonders as Joe mistakes his stunned expression as something a bit more, stammers out that he means, “My shirt, you know, like a girl would—I didn’t mean—“

“Your shirt, hm?” Tom says, register a bit on the gravelly-purr side of things. He lets his gaze rake over Joe’s chest, finds Joe’s eyes narrowed when he returns to them—god, does Joe even know that they’re flirting? One of them should be sure.

“I’ll get the check,” Joe says, and flags down their waiter.

~*~

It’s cold outside, cold and damp in the way only the best cities can be. The sidewalk glitters with recycled glass and Tom is standing by a deserted streetlamp while Joseph Gordon-Levitt lifts up his shirt.

Joe shivers the instant the night air touches his skin, pulls his already flat belly in tight. Tom is looking for his heart on his waist, on his ribs, maybe, but Joe keeps hiking his shirt higher, goosebumps racing across his skin until—there it is.

“That’s a strange place for your heart,” Tom says without thinking. “It’s not even in the middle, squished over to the left.”

“Dude,” Joe says.

“No, I mean to say—it suits you,” he corrects himself quickly, because it’s the truth. It’s mostly that hallmark-heart shape, but it’s threaded with a hundred thousand tiny blood vessels. The way an anatomical heart looks when the muscle’s pulled away. It looks…whole and well cared for. Flushed, and faintly _shining_.

In the back of his mind he knows he stepped forward to keep Joe warm, let what little heat there is be trapped between them. But he doesn’t remember the conscious decision to reach out and touch until his finger traces the edge—not touching his heart, no, he wouldn’t—and Joe’s breathing is tightly controlled, shivers running roughshod through his frame. It isn’t until Tom’s coat sleeve slips back that Joe drags in a breath that’s less than steady.

“Do you want to?” Tom asks, because one of them needs to ask, and Joe has to blink more than once to look away from the way Tom’s heart is glittering like gold filigree in a light that doesn’t come from the street lamp.

“Do you?” Joe says, voice a murmur and his chin raised like a challenge.

Tom pulls back his hand, and he swears he doesn’t mean to brush his thumb dangerously close to Joe’s nipple but it happens, and Joe’s lips part as his eyes go half lidded, and he drops his shirt.

“I’ll text Marion our excuses,” Tom says, “You find us a cab.”

“TAXI,” Joe bellows into the night, and by some miracle, one appears.

~*~

Joe starts off strong—Tom doesn’t know if it’s because he grew up in the limelight, always something to prove, or if he’s just like this—pushing Tom against the door as soon as it falls shut, hands on Tom’s hips hauling him close. It’s not off-putting, it just throws him, the same way he doesn’t realize until they’re kissing that Joe is taller by an inch, that Tom has to tip his mouth up instead of down.

The kiss is wet and hot, Joe showing him the edge of his teeth, urging Tom to give back as good as he's getting—and what he's getting is very good. Joe's hand fits perfectly to the side of Tom's neck as they kiss, palm warm and fingertips tracing the movement of Tom's jaw. Eager, not pushy, rocking his hips against Tom's in a way that says _show me show me show me,_ not _look what I've got to show you_. Tom feels like his ribs are shaking, rattling around inside his chest, and he's already so hard, hard since they slid into a cab and Joe didn't put a hand on his thigh, but looked like it was paining him not to.

Tom snaps back to himself when Joe starts stripping his jacket off him like Tom can’t even undress himself—he can, he’s just, he’s usually better coordinated than this. He pushes Joe back, sheds his coat with his eyes locked on Joe’s where they’ve gone startled-dark.

He takes his shirt off too, kicks out of his boots, and Joe’s chest expands in understanding. He still doesn’t move until Tom hooks a finger in Joe’s belt loop, says, “Help a girl out here, hm?”

Joe’s cheekbones look a little ruddy, but he gives the bulge in Tom’s pants a fearless once-over. “Unless you’ve got something to tell me…”

Tom rises (ha) gladly to that challenge, unbuckles and lets his trousers drop as further incentive to hurry Joe along. Joe just grins, dimples deep as he says, “Didn't think so.”

And Tom wants to tackle him onto the bed for that, cheeky bugger, but Joe finally, finally, goes to work on his belt, and Tom helps him along with his shirt, feeling a bit desperate to get his eyes on Joe’s heart again. That golden glow is waiting for him, and it flares through the veins of his heart like a burning ember—Tom wishes for the maddest second that he could reach out a hand and touch it.

Instead he hauls Joe back in by the nape of his neck and kisses him until breathing feels impossible, until Joe hooks his hands into the wings of Tom’s shoulderblades and drags him to the bed, careful not to let their chests bump.

Tom rolls onto his back and reaches for the bed board with his right hand. His own stupidly glowing heart shimmers like a handful of new-minted coins, heavy and golden.

“This should do it,” he gets out to Joe’s quirked eyebrow, “Keeps it out of your way.”

Joe’s dark eyes are good for acting, good for hiding things; Tom isn’t sure why he thinks of it now. “Okay,” is what he says, and goes to town on Tom’s nipple, mouth wet and teeth sharp until Tom feels like he’s aching from the inside out.

“Joe, _Christ, Joseph,_ ” he moans, but that only serves to shift Joe’s mouth over to the other nipple, one of Joe’s hands flat on his chest and the other moving steadily south. “Kiss me again,” he says, tugging at the nape of Joe’s hair because he thinks he might fly apart if Joe touches him before Tom can get at his mouth again. It’s a near thing, his shuddering breath pushing past Joe’s lips just before they find Tom’s, and then Joe shoves Tom’s briefs out of the way.

He pulls back just once to lick a wet stripe down his palm, and then—then Tom has to clench his right hand into a fist up by the bedboard, has to arch his back and buck his hips into Joe’s clever grip.

Tom's free hand urges him down—grasps his arse and pulls, more like—until Joe is all-but flush against him. And yes, _there_ , Tom can feel Joe hard and, christ, _leaking_ against him, the wet tip of his cock that looks so good it makes Tom's mouth water from the glimpses he gets staring down at the rock of their hips.

The fingers of Joe’s left hand keep digging into Tom’s chest as they rut together, pinky and ring finger caught over the last word coiled around Tom's comedy/tragedy masks tattoo— _Smile Now, Cry Later._ His hand has to feel crushed with how close Joe is rocking them together, and it takes an age before Tom can get it through his sex-hazed head why—that Joe is keeping his heart from pressing against Tom’s skin with the barrier of his hand. Of course he is. Clever boy.

He might have said that last bit out loud, because Joe bites at his chin, not hard enough to leave a mark but only just. “Definitely a man, I mean, full grown,” Tom moans, not able to dredge up actual regret. Joe chuckles and goes back to his poor nipples again, until Tom can't stop arching his back, until one solid fuck of Joe's hips sends him crashing over the edge.

Tom's heart swells with the force of his release, huge and impossible and too big for his skin. He shudders under the weight of Joe's body, clutching at his arse too hard as his cock pulses out a sticky white mess between them. _It'll certainly ease the way_ , Tom thinks in a blissed-out daze, humming contentment against Joe's mouth as Tom is kissed like he's done something terribly clever, instead of something he's been quite good at since he was twelve.

“Can I—“ Joe starts, but seems to catch himself, burying it in a groan.

“Yes, darling,” Tom croons, sex-stupidly petting at Joe's head. “What? Hmm?” Words are incredibly difficult.

Joe pulls back despite many unintelligible protests, but he seems to want to look Tom in the eye, even though it looks like it's costing him something. “Can I come on you?”

“Of course,” Tom says, feeling a little bit insulted that Joe felt he had to ask, before remembering why Joseph would feel that way. Of course this is a one time thing. Of course they don't actually know each other all that well. Of course of course of course. Besides, “I've already come all over you,” Tom points out, running his thumb over the sticky mess on Joe's belly.

But Joe must think he's sexy—it's probably the accent—because he drops his head to Tom's chest and moans. “Right,” he says, “Right, okay, you did,” before he sits up a little, back to straddling Tom's thighs.

This is brilliant. This is porn on legs in Tom's lap, and he's already spent so he can't be distracted by his own pressing needs. Joe wraps a hand around his cock and looks like he regrets the events that had lead him to be pinned under Tom's scrutiny but he's not backing down—there's a flush racing down his neck and chest, bright red against the glow of his heart, and Tom tries not to look so stupidly delighted as he strokes his left hand down over Joe's thigh.

“Beautiful,” Tom says as Joe's hand speeds up, and Joe makes a choking sort of moan in the back of his throat. “Come on, beautiful darling,” Tom says, thinks _fuck it,_ “come all over me.”

Joe is almost there— _almost, almost—_ and Tom unthinkingly brings his right hand down to help—he's never been good at left-handed handjobs—drags his palm over the head right where it's messiest, with his heart still glowing fit to burst. Joe shouts as he comes, a joyful burst of sound.

Tom jerks with the heat splattering across his stomach, and grins at Joe's lovely, ridiculous face. Joe's heart is glowing bright enough Tom fights not to squint, basking in the knowledge that Joe loves this, loves sex—loves coming all over Tom's chest as if he _owns_ him. That's good, that's brilliant. If anything, Tom's heart glows even brighter in response.

Joe collapses face-down on the bed beside him, snugged up close but smothering most of the light from his heart—whether intentionally or not. Tom uses his pinned left arm to pull Joe closer as he shifts his right arm behind his head so he won't do something stupid like touch his heart to Joe's skin. He's giddy with endorphins and sex and _Joe,_ but he isn't a complete idiot.

Joe hums low in his throat when he kisses him, a nuzzling kiss that drags Tom’s stubble across his mouth and cheeks. “Oh, like a bit of beard burn, do we?” Tom rumbles, grinning as he nuzzles back, rubbing his face all down Joe’s neck to the sound of Joe’s startled laughter.

“Got to give the makeup ladies something to complain about, right?” His grin softens, and then he lets his head fall against Tom’s chest with a soft groan. “Fuck, I’m tired,” he says, “Do you care if I fall asleep on you?”

“It’s your hotel room, love,” Tom reminds him, looping his left arm around Joe’s waist. “I’m the one who should leave.”

“Mmph,” Joe mumbles, “Do whatever. Wait, hang on one sec.” He drags himself to the edge of the bed, grabs his t-shirt from the floor, and wriggles into it. Tom watches all that golden skin disappear from sight with a pang. “There we go,” Joe sighs as he burrows back under the covers, head tucked against Tom’s shoulder, “Don’t have to worry about it.”

His eyes are already shut, lashes dark against his cheeks and his words sleepy-slurred; he’s out between one breath and the next, before Tom can ask him if he really does want Tom to stay, what he means by not worrying about it—except, oh, Joe has covered up his heart. So he can sleep next to Tom without worrying about touching his heart to Tom’s skin in his sleep.

Tom should do the same. He should grab a—a sock or something, tie it around his wrist and curl up next to Joe, let this heaviness pull them under together.

There are few things Tom hates more than going to sleep with wet hair, but waking up stuck to the sheets in last night's come makes the list. Shower first, then sock, then burrowing back beneath the sheets where Joe is lovely and warm.

He waits a few minutes, blinking thick eyelids at the ceiling until he’s given Joe a head start, then carefully slides out from under Joe to hit the shower. Almost immediately he has to squint against the sting of soap in his eyes, and somehow rinsing it makes him inhale water up his nose. Then Tom bites back a curse, trips on the edge of the tub and nearly impales himself on the towel rack. The shock of cold air upon leaving the bathroom feels like a slap in the face (and his balls), and Tom makes an immediate beeline for the bed, glaring at the floor in search of a sock to wrap around his—

Tom’s heart is still glowing. Steady and bright and gold.

_Oh, fuck._

~*~

Joe doesn’t seem to hate him for sneaking out in the middle of the night, shrugs off Tom’s offered excuse with an easy smile and, “Don’t worry about it. Seriously, I get it.” Which is impossible, Tom barely gets it himself.

Tom narrows his gaze; he never has been able to keep from looking into the mouths of gifted horses, or however the saying goes. “What happened to Mr. Hyper-analytical, then?”

Joe laughs—it’s hard to tell if his smile reaches his eyes, the way they crinkle at the corners. “I told you, I’m working on it. No, I figured if you wanted to stay you’d have stayed.” He shrugs, all-American ‘no big deal.’

“I did want to,” Tom blurts, because he’s a helpless fucking idiot.

And because he’s a helpless fucking idiot, he can’t tell if Joe’s smile looks a little more real, or if it’s (hopeless) wishful (fucking) thinking on his (idiotic) part.

Joe lifts his shoulders in another shrug, hands tucked in his pockets. “Maybe next time,” he says, and lands a light punch on Tom’s shoulder when he walks away, like they’re talking about playing football in the park.

Next time. _Next time._ Christ.

Tom thanks God and the Costume Department for Eames’ long sleeves and heavy watch, and he takes to wearing a bandage over his heart as well, citing irritation when Penny from props lifts a questioning eyebrow about it. “Nothing a little padding won’t fix,” he says, and hopes it’s true.

A rational person would think—would look at the state of Tom’s heart before Joe and say—no chance a heart like that falls in love with someone after one night. Tom would take that rational person by the ear and ask them how the fuck they thought Tom’s heart wound up like this in the first place? He falls in love too quickly, and too much, and inevitably Tom is left pushing the soggy pieces back together when it all goes to shit.

So it’s good Joe is reacting this way, not like last night never happened, but like it did and he’s fine with the way it turned out. It is good. All Tom needs to do is worry about next time.

~*~

Arthur’s heart is on the back of his left hand. Every morning the temporary tattoo is precisely placed and given a coat of something to help it hold up—Tom knows the drill from other movie’s he’s been in, _Bronson_ and _Wuthering Heights_ and a quick scene in _RocknRolla_. Some days the tattoo contains a trio of green dots for the Special Effects crew to work with, adding faint ripples of discomfort, gleams or glows if the characterization calls for it.

It says something that Arthur’s heart is on the back of his hand. Tom has heard Joe chatting about it with Nolan, how Arthur presents himself as very put together and open but never lets anyone near his non-dominant hand, even going so far as to hold it farther away from himself when he kisses Ariadne.

“The film buffs are going to be jizzing their pants over this movie, you know?” tiny Ellen Page announces as she drops down next to Tom with her lunch.

Tom very casually tears his gaze from the back of Joe’s hand. He thinks Leo had been talking about his new flat, so it was perfectly alright that he hadn’t been listening to a word of it.

“Uh, _yeah,_ ” Joe says, sharing a grin with her. Leo quickly hides his broken sentence in a large gulp of water. “I don’t know if you’ve heard this, but Christopher Nolan’s directing.”

“No shit,” Ellen says with her mouth full. “I just heard the cast was baller.”

Joe reaches over for a high-five which Ellen indulges while Tom tries to pretend like he doesn’t feel a million years old. How old is Joe, anyway? He looks like an infant.

“Hey,” Ellen says, nudging Tom with her elbow. “Hey, where do you think your heart is?”

Arthur and Dom’s are the only hearts specified in the film besides Mal’s, the twisted, lurking thing nestled between Marion Cotillard’s breasts. There’s a mini-montage in the script that shows Mal in a psychiatrist’s office showing a healthy heart on her forearm to a doctor, and a scene before that where she’s buying a forged heart mark from shady men in an alley. So far, the technology to forge a heart that would stand up under deep scrutiny hasn’t been invented yet, but this is a future with Dream Sharing and PASIV devices.

But Eames’ heart never pops up in the script, though there is a suggested placement in the character description. “I’ve talked to Nolan about it,” Tom says, then stops when he realizes he’s about to feed her a press line. He likes Ellen; she doesn’t deserve that.

Tom lifts one arm and taps the back of his ribs, high up where his arm naturally falls.

“Ahh,” she says, nodding sagely. “Makes sense.”

“Really?” Joe says, leaning in. “You think—there?”

“Hidden depths, darling,” Tom says. It shouldn’t feel like Joe is criticizing his character choice, so he makes sure he gives Joe a smile when he says it.

“Would you care to,” Leo says, chin propped up on his fingertips as he squints, “ _elucidate_ your choice?”

It bursts a laugh out of Tom’s chest—if there’s anyone who inhabits a caricature of themselves it’s Leo DiFuckingCaprio, and Leo grins to show he knows it. “Fine, alright, I’ll _elucidate_. Eames is a forger, yeah? He sheds skins like a snake at a strip club, right, _and_ he can shift his heart to fit that other person to a bloody T. He keeps his heart by his ribs because it’s naturally protected. If he could keep it in the crease of his arse he would, but he’s just not that much of a slag. Under his arm means no one’s going to see it if he doesn’t want them to—hell, _he_ doesn’t even have to look at it if he doesn’t like. Eames knows his own heart,” Tom says, emphasizing every word with a jab at the table. “That’s why he pokes so much at Arthur.”

“How do you mean?” Joe asks, curiously. If he was leaning any further over the table he’d be in Tom’s lap. “Like, Eames doesn’t think Arthur pays his heart enough attention?”

“Does he?” Tom counters.

He’s pushed it too far, Tom knows it in an instant. Leo puts his hands up and leans back from the table, and Ellen’s chewing so quickly Tom’s afraid she might run out of sandwich soon and start chomping on the wrapper. And Joe—the one who matters, the one Tom just insinuated ignores where his character’s heart is, _Acting Basics_ —Joe just looks at him, eyes a little narrow, some sort of smile hiding in the shadow of his mouth.

“I mean, it’s a brilliant acting choice,” Tom says, pouring reassurance and sincerity into his tone. “It _works_ for Arthur, don’t misunderstand—“

“You’re right,” Joe says. Tom chokes on the rest of the utter shite he was about to say, character interpretation that is utterly none of his business. Joe lets his head fall forward, then rolls it back, huffing out a laugh. “No, Arthur’s—he has some issues when it comes to his heart. It’s part of why he wears gloves in the dreamscape. I know you didn’t mean it like that, but I do know I’m not grounded in Arthur’s heart when I act, it’s deliberate,” Joe adds, not looking at Tom, shoulders hunched over his folded arms and his voice still perfectly casual.

“No, it’s perfect,” Tom can’t stop himself from saying; the back of his ears feels hot. “It makes so much sense. Arthur’s Cobb's point man—he takes care of everyone else before himself.”

Joe sits back a little, and whatever tension was left in the air seems to dissipate, at least for the time being. “Exactly.”

“Man,” Ellen says, still chewing, “for a sec there I thought you were either going to throw down or make out.”

“Ha bloody ha,” Tom says, and nudges her sandwich into her face next time she goes for a bite. She shows him her half masticated food in revenge.

Joe has a thoughtful look in his eye Tom is pretending he can’t see, and Leo looks like he wants to take a nap, or fly to Moscow, or be otherwise away from this table entirely. He's a very serene man, DiCaprio. When he wants to be.

“Anyway,” Ellen says, “thank you for asking about my character insights as well. I think Ariadne keeps her heart right here,” she adds, digging a thumb into the hollow of her throat. “Explains why she’s a big fan of the scarves.”

“Very true, very noble place for a heart,” Tom tells her, pretending even harder that Joe isn’t still looking at him like he wants to crack Tom’s spine and read every page.

Or, at least the first part. The rest is most likely Tom’s errant romanticism. His heart gives a sudden painful throb beneath the plaster and Eames’ watch, and Tom tries not to flinch as he shifts his hand beneath the table. It’s really too much to hope Joe didn’t notice, with his luck.

~*~

Joe finds him after shooting’s done for the day. It isn’t difficult a difficult task—Tom is still hitting his mark, two feet to Joe’s right when Nolan calls cut—and it isn’t like Tom wasn’t expecting it.

“Do you want to grab dinner?” Joe asks, head tilted to one side, which… _is_ unexpected. But maybe he thinks if there's food involved Tom won't shamelessly flee from a discussion of their budding relationship.

“Yeah, sure, mate,” Tom says in one breath. He claps Joe on the shoulder and leaves it there as they start to walk towards makeup to have their faces scrubbed clean; he figures this much touching is allowed, as it’s literally keeping Joe at arm’s length, so. So it doesn’t matter that Joe feels warm. “I’m famished. Where were you thinking?”

“I got the name of Dileep’s curry place,” Joe offers around a slow-to-build grin.

Tom stares. “You didn’t.”

“I did,” Joe laughs.

_I love you,_ Tom would have said but doesn’t, and for a moment Tom’s heart throbs so hard he feels a little ill. “Dear Joseph,” he chokes out instead and it sounds awful; he drops his arm and tries to run with it, hand to his mouth to feign _deeply moved_ instead of _stupidly heartsick_.

Joe hums, unimpressed. A gaggle of crew wander past, and they nod hello as the proximity pushes Joe close enough to bump his shoulder against Tom’s in a way that doesn’t feel entirely by accident.

"What on earth have I done to deserve this?" Tom asks, truly bewildered. "It can't have been insulting your acting prowess over lunch, unless you plan to poison me."

"The curry does come with a price," Joe prevaricates, blinking up at the sky. "I'm going to need at least another hour being pretentious actor douchebags talking about our characters' deepest inner thoughts."

Tom gives him a look, but Joe seems quite serious. "That sounds terrible."

Joe just smirks for a minute, then he ducks his head. "No catch, really. I just--well, you're a cool guy, I'd like to spend some time with you. If, you know, you want to spend time with me." His ears are a brilliant shade of red by the time he finishes, and Tom has to shove his hands in his pockets so he doesn't reach out to cup them in his palms.

"I," Tom starts, then huffs out a sharp breath. "Oh, this is bollocks. Not you," he stammers quickly at the look of shock on Joe's face. "I mean, us, this--terribly awkward betwixt space we're in. Isn't it?"

"Awkward?" Joe repeats, "Or betwixt?"

God, why did Tom use that word? "Both?" he offers, feeling a bit like he's walked out on thin air, waiting to fall.

"Betw--Between implies going somewhere," Joe says, stumbling over the word. "Like, we're between one thing and another thing."

There's the lurch, the first trembling shudder before the fall. "Aren't we?" Tom gets out, "Between friends and...friends-with-benefits, at least?" It's a close save, and not entirely a lie, even though Tom's traitorous heart thumps like it is.

"Oh," Joe says like understanding. He looks up and away, shaking his head a little, lips parted and curled in the corners. "Yes. Yeah. Okay. Cool."

Tom pauses, in case Joe has a few more one-word sentences planned. He can see Joe _not asking_ , not asking because he told himself he wouldn't, and it makes Tom want to spill everything in a hot hopeless mess against the pavement.

"I do," Tom says, because he can, he can say this much, "I do want to spend time with you. I would like that very much."

The smile hiding in Joe's mouth widens into something real, slow and sweet and eager, before Stan-the-light-guy walks by shuffling papers, nodding distractedly to them both, and Joe's dimples flicker to life in his cheeks when he ducks his head to hide his smile.

"Um, good," Joe says, clearing his throat. "I'm glad. Uh, you wanna—meet me at my car? After changing?"

"Yes." Tom can't help it--he reaches out and gives Joe's earlobe a teasing tug before he goes, watches Joe flush down to the collar of his shirt before he turns away. And turns back. "I don't know which car is yours."

Joe laughs. "I'll keep an eye out for you."

This will be good. Dinner. They can take it slow, spend an evening chatting, give Tom a little time to catch his breath and calm his heart. He'll wear a handful of bracelets to give his heart some cover, stall and stall and stall until it makes more sense to be in love with Joe, or until he falls out of love again. Then—well, then he'll see. As long as they take it slow everything will be fine.

~*~

Tom whines as he hitches his hips back into Joe's thrusts, take-away containers unopened and cooling on the coffee table as Joe fucks him into next week. Possibly next _year_ , Tom can't feel the top of his head, wonders if he's ever felt it, wonders if he even needs a head as long as Joe keeps fucking him full, full, full, Tom's arms all-but collapsed under him as he tries not to smother himself against the mattress. His cock is so hard he feels cross-eyed.

Joe nuzzles and bites between his shoulderblades, hips slamming in at breakneck speed, then slowing it down, making Tom work for it. Joe is barely undressed, belt jingling and his shirt rucked up to his belly, so Tom only gets teasing bits of skin-on-skin. Third time Joe's fucked him with his clothes on; as a kink, it _definitely_ works for Tom, drives him fucking mental while ratcheting his need up to excruciating levels. He keens and shoves back into Joe's thrusts, wriggling and trying to get more of just _Joe._

It's been a five days since their first curry date. Tom's heart is glowing like a bloody supernova.

"How do you do that thing with your hips," Tom asks after, words slurring into a fucked-out mess. His whole body feels like really excellent jello when Joe hits the bed next to him, all ruddy-faced and sweaty and grinning. His jeans are splayed open, and his cock looks thoroughly debauched--Tom wants to get his mouth on it even though it probably tastes of latex.

"I have a friend. Used to be a stripper," Joe says, tongue coming up to flirt with the back of his teeth. "He taught me some moves."

"Is he magic," Tom wonders, dragging himself an inch closer to mouth at the curve of Joe's shoulder. He might be getting addicted to the taste of Joe's skin. It isn't to the point where it's affecting his acting, but between scenes he's caught himself staring at the tender spot under Joe's jaw, the exposed skin of his wrists.

Joe laughs, dimples flashing. Tom wants to kiss them too. "Maybe."

"I would like to buy him a medal," Tom announces as he loops an arm around Joe's middle. "Very well taught."

"Do you want to sleep, or food?" Joe asks, his nose bumping Tom's probably by accident.

Tom inhales on a grunt, head dragged off the bed by pure force of will. "Food.” Definitely food. The curry place is so excellent they've been working their way through the entire menu. “Right. Yes. No hang on, love, I've got it. You did all the hard work."

Joe bites his lip and very nicely doesn't say anything about the way Tom's legs are all wobbly when he stands. Tom gives him a very sexy-coy look over his shoulder which is utterly wasted, Joe sprawled out and delightfully smug, ogling Tom's arse and grinning shamelessly when he's caught at it, cheeks all flushed and happy.

Tom feels a bit like a slag moving around Joe's apartment completely naked save for his bracelets, a bit tarty and another bit like a kept boy, especially with Joe mostly clothed on the bed. By the time he's collected their dinner and brought it back Joe has tucked himself away, belt still undone but the rest of him almost neat.

Maybe Tom should follow suit, but he's never been much bothered by nudity. It's far more out of deference to the possibility of curry dripping onto his dick than a sense of propriety that Tom pulls a sheet over his lap while they eat, while Tom very carefully doesn't think about how badly he's fucking up absolutely everything.

Five days. Tom wishes he didn't know exactly how many times they've had sex, counting one excruciatingly hectic blowjob in Joe's trailer at midday. Joe had spent the rest of the day strutting around like a peacock while Tom fought not to turn red as a tomato at the slightest provocation. Leo asked him if he was coming down with a fever. It was not his finest moment.

They haven't slowed down. They're not likely to slow down. Tom can't bring himself to regret a single second of it; he'll wear thick watches if he has to, thick leather cuffs and long sleeves.

His heart glows cheerily onward, steady as the Olympic bleeding torch.

"You okay?"

Tom looks up at Joe's question, very, _very_ glad he's an actor. Especially when Joe tilts his head toward Tom's traitorously glowing heart, eyes still on his supper. "Penny mentioned the watch was bugging you."

Tom gives Joe a smile and works to get his pulse under control. "Bit claustrophobic, is all."

"But the bracelets don't bother it?" Joe asks, big brain turned on and an almost Arthurian frown on his forehead.

"These?" Tom says as if he's just noticed he's wearing three at once. It's natural to shift a bit away so Joe can see his jewelry better, isn't it? "Parachord. I'm told if I'm ever in a bind I can unravel them to make a wicked Cat's Cradle. For survival purposes, you understand."

"Oh yeah," Joe agrees, nodding too seriously. "But can you do a Jacob's Ladder? All the other little girls will beat you up if you can't."

"Oi, little boys too," Tom laughs, relieved their conversation seems diverted. "I was mad for it as a kid. Tied my fingers all in knots trying to work it out. Never did get Jacob's Ladder down pat." 

"When we're done eating," Joe says, "I'm going to sacrifice a shoelace to furthering your education. So. Prepare yourself." He grins, knocks their shoulders together, and Tom feels like his heart might be attempting a Cat's Cradle of its own. 

They eat in silence for a while, trading smiles and bites of yellow curry for red (not as brilliant as the lamb vindaloo but still better than the aloo gobi), and it's the most...comfortable Tom has felt in an age. It always is, every moment with Joe feels like sinking into a warm bath after eight hours of stuntwork in manufactured rain. Joe taps a finger against one of his tattoos and asks about it, and Tom tells him, watches Joe's interest and amusement and complete lack of criticism.

“Have you thought about getting one?” Tom asks, after he sees Joe visibly bite down on asking the most common question: _Does it hurt?_ The truth is always yes, some places more than others, and every single time it's worth it.

“I love the artistry in it,” Joe says once he's thought a moment, “I love how much emotion each piece can carry. But I've never found a design I've loved long enough to commit to it.” He twists his mouth, as if Tom will think less of him for knowing himself so well.

“For me,” Tom says, “it's like—when you're really happy, and you take a picture, then you find that picture later and you go, 'Oh wow, remember how incandescently, brilliantly happy I was?' and you feel a sort of echo of that emotion—for me, tattoos are carrying all those good times around on my skin. Or things I learned about myself, ways I changed, made myself better from the bad times. Also I'm a big softy and they make me look mean and tough.”

“Yeah, I can see how you would need all the help you can get,” Joe nods, too serious, and grins.

“Cheeky,” Tom scolds, warmth in his chest.

“No, it's,” Joe starts, and sighs, actually serious this time. “I get it. I really do. Being able to immortalize something good and reflect on your failings without allowing yourself to be crippled by them. Shit,” he stops and groans, covering his face, “sorry, that sounded really—”

“Wonderful,” Tom finishes for him, before the grin breaks through. “Deep. Very deep.”

“Shut up,” Joe mutters, but he seems to understand Tom isn't making fun of him in a cruel way. He nudges Tom's elbow, and Tom nudges back, and they tuck back into their food with easy familiarity, like they've eaten together every meal for weeks.

After a beat, Joe glances over beneath his lashes, says, “Looks like you're really enjoying the curry.”

Tom's bracelets have slid up his arm as he lifts his fork to his mouth, exposing his heart. Tom fights the urge to hide his wrist and wiggles his eyebrows for Joe, eating the last few bites with gusto. It is really good. Not good enough to make up for how bright Tom's heart is glowing, but he can see why Dileep would shed a tear over it.

“And other things,” he teases when he's finished chewing, leaning over with intentions to leave Joe with a kiss. But Joe's lips are warm with Indian spices, and he makes a little noise that Tom has to taste, and the brief brush of mouths sinks into something longer, deeper, painful to pull away from.

He does, though. He has to. Joe takes a second to blink his eyes open and Tom almost crumples, but his heart aches and reminds him exactly why he needs to leave.

“Are you going?” Joe asks when he sees Tom shift into his pants. He sounds casual, sprawling out across his headboard as if to say _look how much space I take up_ while he stretches.

“Have to,” Tom says. Jeans on next, one leg then the other. As soon as he gets the belt done he leans in for another kiss, because Joe is there and so kissable. “Early shoot tomorrow for me,” he says after, an inch from Joe's mouth.

“Hmm,” Joe says, then seems to blink awake. “Oh _shit_.”

“What?” Tom asks, bewildered.

“No, I've got—wow, I totally forgot today was Wednesday.” He props a hand on his face, almost laughs into it. “Fuck, I've got to catch a plane in six hours, this sucks.”

“A _plane?_ ”

“Yeah, I've got—” Joe sits up and looks at him, takes in Tom's expression. He smiles, reassuring and sweet. “They don't need me for the next five days. I'm back to New York for the week.”

“Of course. That.” Tom shakes his head, trying to rid himself of the stupidity that had blocked him coming to this realization on his own. They're filming some of the snow fortress interior scenes tomorrow, bulky snowsuits and three levels down, Arthur left behind to defy gravity on his own. “Cillian will be there,” Tom realizes out loud, which must sound as ridiculous to Joe as it does to Tom, because Joe gets a sort of fixed look on his face.

“Yeah,” Joe says before he shakes himself off. “So yeah, I need to pack.”

“If you want to leave anything with me,” Tom offers before he can think better of it. “I mean, you'll be back, it seems silly to pack everything if...”

“Yeah,” Joe agrees, saving him from trying to find an end to that sentence. “I'll let you know, okay? I have—do I have your number?”

Christ. No, he doesn't, and Tom lets him program it into his phone with a detached sort of numbness. He jumps when his own phone chirps in his pocket—Joe's text to make sure the number is right—and tries to use the time spent hidden by the hoodie he's pulling over his head to get a grip on himself. Thank god for long sleeves, they hide his heart where the bracelets don't.

When he surfaces, Joe's face is still as perfectly lovely, smiling faintly up at him. “Cheers,” Tom says, feeling helpless as he drops one last kiss on Joe's upturned mouth. “Keep in touch, hm?”

Joe's smile flickers and grows, fingertips flexing against the mattress. “Yeah.”

“Safe flight,” Tom says at the door, and he leaves without waiting to see if Joe will respond, because if he doesn't then Joe might feel like he has to say something, and—and what? In all honesty, Tom is afraid if he doesn't leave now he'll wind up on the floor, begging Joe to stay.

Less than a week, they've been fucking. And Tom is already missing Joe like a phantom limb, like the first year his heart stopped lingering like a punctuation mark at the end of his _Til I Die_ tattoo. Christ.

Tom goes back to his hotel room and raids the minibar for chocolate. Nothing says 'wallowing teenage twat' like a twenty dollar Snickers bar, after all.

~*~

Tom is woken up by the glow of his bloody fucking heart. He stares at it for a long while, watching the gold shimmer along his ventricles, pooling in the threadbare patches over the chambers. The light isn't as supernova-esque as when he's within kissing distance of Joseph, but it isn't anywhere near a glow that can be explained away by pointing at things and shouting, “I LOVE CARPET.”

He takes a deep, deep breath, holds it until his lungs start to hurt.

“You'll need to get over yourself,” Tom tells his heart, tracing the edge. He ignores the faint shiver the light touch produces, nowhere near as electrifying as when someone else does it. “Do you want to be Heathcliff? Hmm?”

Of all the characters he's portrayed, the angry boy with a chip on his shoulder who mistakes infatuation and obsession for love and ruins his life and the lives of others in a colossal shitstorm ending in misery and multiple deaths—yes, Tom should definitely find someone else to emulate. Maybe he could be Eames, with his quiet but brutal efficiency and adaptability. Eames would be able to shrug off his heart loving someone without proper cause, Tom is almost sure of it. Or maybe Tom could just be Tom, a Tom who's not in love with Joe. Yet. A Tom who falls in love with Joe a few months from now, when it makes more sense.

This break will do him good. Enough distance, Tom's heart should find an even keel, a glow more befitting the early stages of a relationship. And New York is full of interesting places and people, Joe will be too busy to keep much contact.

His phone rings, a jarring chirp and buzz against the bed stand, and Tom answers knowing who it is. “Yeah?”

“ _Tommaaaaay!_ ”

“Cillieeee,” Tom parrots back, making himself grin, making himself feel it. “Where are you?” he asks as he drags himself upright. “They better've sent a car, I'm not picking your sad arse up at the airport.”

“Shut it, you love my sad arse,” Cillian shoots back, but Tom hears a car door close nearby and the ambient noise drops. “Right, they did send a car, but you can meet me on set in twenty minutes with a cuppa.”

“Not your PA, Cillian,” Tom reminds him, yet again, and drags his tired body out of bed. At least he'll spend all five days thoroughly distracted.

~*~

Ask any reporter or interviewer on the Hollywood circuit, they'll loudly proclaim Cillian Murphey to be the quietest, most angelic Irish angel they've ever set eyes on. They've clearly never stumbled through the darkest streets in London with Cillian Murphy, drunkenly screaming “ _There's Brown, upside down, lappin' up the whiskey on the floor,_ ” followed by loud, exaggerated slurping noises. 

Cillian is a pro in front of the cameras—attentive to direction, respectful to the director and crew, on-point between takes—and an absolute fucking wanker to Tom every single moment of the day. The second time he manages to sneak salt into Tom's tea Tom stares him down and drinks the entire cup, because their relationship might never progress past adolescence but he's not _weak_.

It must set something right in Cillian's head between the two of them, because afterward the pranks drop sharply off. Instead, Tom finds himself the target of those blistering blue eyes every spare second Cillian can get away with it.

“So, Tommy,” Cillian starts at lunch, six extra syllables in Tom's name. Ellen is looking at him warily. Ellen is a smart cookie. “How's your love life?”

Tom very decisively doesn't choke. “What.”

“Don't tell me I got it right in one,” Cillian grins. “I had six other questions to ferret out what's got you bothered. Am I right? Really? Love troubles?”

“ _Six_ questions,” Ellen says, bless her. “Really?”

“Yes,” Tom says, fixing Cillian with a look, “I've been pining desperately for you, darling. Seeing you in person has overwhelmed my fragile sensibilities.”

“Don't tease, my heart can't take it.” Cillian plays wounded, sheltering his heart where it lingers just above his knee. “And yes,” he adds to Ellen, “Six questions. Organized in order of likelihood.”

“What's second-most likely?” Ellen asks, finishing the last bite of her salad with a casually violent stab of her fork.

“'Has your agent dumped you for Matthew McCoughsaloogie?'” he answers, blue eyes sincere. “Third is, 'Have you become a Scientologist?'”

Tom rolls his eyes, feeling a little ill at the thought. Actually, he's been feeling a little ill all day, just background nausea. It's possible he's coming down with something, and more than likely considering the concentration of foreign germs inherent in any large group of people working closely together. “These are _most_ likely?” he clarifies, wishing he had a snappier comeback.

“I've known you since we were sixteen,” Cillian points out, just as his phone buzzes in his pocket.

“Oh really? Did you— _Whoaaaa,_ ” Ellen says, staring at Tom. “What did your face just do?”

“Nothing,” Tom says. He's sure it's not a lie. Just as sure as he is that Joe has just texted him ' _Hey ;)_.' Hey, winky face. What on earth is Tom meant to do with that?

His phone vibrates again before he can do more than blink at it, viscerally aware that both Cillian and Ellen are staring at him as though he's grown another head.

_L.A. Is terrible. Miss the city already._

_You should,_ Tom texts back with thumbs that feel elephantine. If thumbs can even—fucking christ. _The city misses you too,_ he adds before he can talk himself out of it, and turns his phone off, shoves it as far in his pocket as it will go and pretends none of it ever happened.

“I'm concerned about your blood pressure,” Cillian says, and if he looks like he means it his entire job is pretending.

“Shove off,” Tom tells him, trying to find that balance of friendly banter and _no truly shove the fuck off_. He's suddenly starving, but he doesn't want to eat here, and he can't reconcile himself to the stroppy fit building under his skin that says he should take his food and flounce off.

“Tom, really,” Ellen asks, resting her hand over the rigid line of his knuckles where his fist is clenched on top of the table. His left hand, because Tom doesn't trust what his heart is doing beneath the bandage and Eames' long black sleeves. Tom makes himself meet her eyes, and he makes it look easy. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” he says. His thumb slips over hers, reassuring, before he pulls away. “Just a little under the weather, I think.”

“I didn't mean for you to _drink the tea_ ,” Cillian bursts out, “You daft bowsie. There were three packets of salt in that cup—all you had to do was make a face and spit it out!”

Oh. That explains the nausea. Ellen looks long and hard at both of their faces and sits back, eyebrows climbing into her hairline. “Wow,” she tells them, stealing half Tom's sandwich as she stands up. “ _Wow._ ”

They've done much worse in their years of knowing each other, and maybe it is unprofessional to pull pranks on set, but Ellen is already gone before Tom finds the words he needs to apologize. Cillian has a pained, pinched look on his face when Tom turns back to him. “Tommy,” he says, voice low, but Tom cuts him off.

“I'll be fine,” Tom says, which is true, even though he feels tired in a way that seems more than a sodium overdose. “And anyway, you haven't yet come across what I've done in sweet revenge.”

Cillian's eyes narrow. “I know you're bluffing.”

Tom picks up what's left of his meal, past ready for a dramatic exit. “Do you?” He leaves Cillian with a smirk, heads to his trailer, and drinks what feels like a gallon of water until he feels slightly more human.

~*~

Despite hydrating, the day is long, grueling, and Tom is fighting faint nausea through take after take. His phone feels like a lead weight in his pocket—and then a phantom weight when he can't stand it anymore and hands it off to his P.A., Sean.

When Nolan calls wrap for the day Tom feels like he's been working twelve-hour nightshoots for a week. Cillian doesn't even try to drag him out to dinner; one look at Tom's face must be argument enough. He does make Tom share his ride back to the hotel, citing Tom's impending senility to cover his guilty conscience.

“Get on with you,” Tom orders, gruff but fond, the way he only ever is with Cillian. “You've two weeks here, we'll catch a meal when I'm not fatally poisoned.”

Cillian's face scrunches, but he doesn't fight Tom on it—Tom must look worse than he feels. “Sleep it off, christ, you break my heart to look at.”

“You've never had a broken heart in your life,” Tom reminds him, because Cillian is the luckiest man in the world with his wife Yvonne. Their hearts glow with perfect contentment every time they look at each other—Tom's gone on enough beach retreats with them to see Cillian's heart shining above his pasty Irish knee, below his swim trunks; seen the answering shine of Yvonne's heart glimmering on her lower ribs. It's sickeningly beautiful.

“Tommy,” Cillian says, stopping him with a gentle hand above his wrist. Tom's heart still gives a throb like he's been punched on a bruise. “Oh, christ, Tommy, again?”

Shit, buggering fuck. “I'm fixing it,” Tom tells him as evenly as he can. “It's not like the other times—I didn't see it coming on, so I'm just a bit. Caught unaware.” He winces, and he can't look at Cillian's face.

“Have you told whoever it is?” Cillian asks gently, and it's sweet but Tom can barely stand it. “Tommy, they might—it's not fair to them to assume you're the only one in this—”

“Less than a week, Cillian,” Tom cuts him off. “And it hasn't stopped fucking glowing since the first night we—” He breaks off with a sigh and makes himself look, because he'll need the reminder of stricken realization on Cillian's face to help him remember why it's a good thing Joe is gone. There it is, though Cillian doesn't look as horrified as he should, as Tom feels. “No, I'm the only fool-hearted lovebird in this nest.”

“Poetic,” Cillian says. “And so full of horse shite— _Tom,_ ” he says when Tom tries to protest. “Martydom looks bloody awful on you. _Talk to them_. Whoever it is. If nothing else it'll help you pull your head from your arse and stop pining. Start mending your heart back together. It's what you're best at.” Cillian gives his arm a squeeze. “Bravest bloke I know. Now, get out my car. I've places to be.”

Tom sighs dramatically to cover the fact that he is—inexplicably—feeling a little better. “Yes, yes, you're a very important Hollywood actor, I remember. Weren't you a scarecrow in summat; _Wizard of Oz_ remake _,_ was it?”

“Keep laughing, caffler, one of us's been in a _Batman_ movie, and sure it wasn't you.”

“Don't you laugh, I'm _in_ now. Nolan collects actors and now I'm part of his set, I'll _be_ Batman next film. Shove over, Christian Bale—”

“Shove over yourself,” Cillian growls, and starts pushing him from the car. In true Cillian fashion, however, once he's prodded and poked and shut the door in Tom's face, he rolls down the window and says, “Call me, if you need.”

Tom waves him off. He can handle this, can handle his love life. His phone is still off. He's made progress. Hasn't he? So he'll eat dinner and hit the gym and watch telly, and not think about Joe at all. Easy.

~*~

He lasts up until the moment he's settled down in bed, staring up at the ceiling. His legs are sore from the treadmill, his ribs are aching from situps, and his arms feel like cooked (broiled, twisted, painful) noodles. The background nausea hasn't gone away, no matter how much water he's gulped down—and he hardly thinks three packets of salt would cause so much trouble, there's probably twice that amount of sodium in an average burger. He's exhausted and he can't sleep, and his heart won't stop glowing but he can't bear to cover it. And he only managed to stop thinking about Joe between the sixtieth pushup and the sixty-second.

The light from his phone turning on is only half as bright as his heart. It pings immediately—fifteen, sixteen times, Tom stops keeping track when it just spikes his pulse with each and every chime. Two from his American agent, asking for a call. Four from his British agent, reminding him of events. Five from his mum—christ, he needs to call her, and he should've never taught her to text. Two from some mates in Edinburgh. And three—three from Joe.

_**1:16 PM:** _ _Ugh mixing. I love it but my brain feels like pudding._

_**1:23 PM:** _ _That's AMERICAN pudding, btw. Not your weird all desert inclusive pudding._

_**1:29 PM:** _ _Sorry i know ur on set, hope i'm not bugging you_

And then nothing. Three texts in quick succession in the middle of Joe's afternoon. And radio silence.

Joe probably thinks by now that he was bothering Tom. And—shit, fuck, Tom was the one to say Joe should keep in touch, wasn't he? Joe had clearly tried, and Tom blew him off.

He should reply. If Tom weren't in love yet, he'd be replying. Joe hasn't done anything _wrong._

_Day ran long as fuck,_ Tom types and doesn't let himself write 'darling.' _My own brain is currently Yorkshire pudding, which is neither a pudding nor a desert._

It's only after he hits send that he remembers the time difference, and starts sweating over wondering if he's woken Joe in the middle of the night, if he should text again to apologize or if that might make it worse. If he—

Tom's phone chirps with a new text. And then another, before Tom can even open the first.

**12:34 AM:** _Haha don't let Nolan work you TOO hard_

**12:34 AM:** _Altho don't think a brain is going to help much w understanding the movie_

_Its all n Nolan's hands nw,_ Tom texts back, fingers fumbling with the keys. _Wat r u doing awake?_

**12:35 AM:** _Dunno. Jet lag? Tired all day, shdn't have so much trbl_

It's hard to tell whether the missing letters are Joe's natural texting cadences or if sleep is winning out. All he can feel is the huge expanse of bed next to him where Joe would fit, where Tom could curl around him and pet his hair and murmur nothings until they both drifted off.

_Hope you sleep soon,_ is what Tom settles on after a dozen scrapped drafts. _Can't be looking tired when u get back to filming that movie abt dreams_

He doesn't get a reply, even though he stays up twenty minutes waiting before he turns his phone off. Best case scenario, Joe finally managed to sleep; worst case, Joe realized Tom's a hopeless idiot and gave up on the conversation.

~*~

“I love acting,” Cillian says from the floor, where he is pretending to be shot.

“Shut up,” Tom tells him, adjusting the rifle on his back so he doesn't keep fussing with his snow suit. “Be dead.”

“Wake me if I start snoring,” Cillian says, settling in. Tom hopes the floor is hard and uncomfortable. He might wake Cillian by kicking him.

He feels like he's roasting in his snow suit—he's already stripped out of the shirt he was wearing underneath it, but now it feels like his skin is sticking to the lining. Why couldn't they be filming this in Canada with the rest of the snow fortress, instead of a lot set with greenscreens outside the windows?

“Hold up—take five, everybody,” Nolan says through a sigh of frustration, raking a hand through his hair. “Something's up with the lens. Don't go too far.”

Take five means at least fifteen minutes, and Tom plans to spend all of them with his gear stripped off. He is visibly sweaty when he shrugs his jacket down to his wrists and flops onto the chair with his name on it with a grunt of disgust.

“Too sexy for your shirt?” Ellen says, commiserative, as she drops down next to him and pulls out her phone. Tom's own phone has remained ominously silent all day. “I hear ya.”

“It's too hot,” he complains, trying not to feel sullen. Joe is very busy and important. It's fine.

Ellen glances over at him beneath her hat, gaze sharp. “Ooookay,” she says. Then frowns. “Are you feeling alright?”

Other than the way his heart feels like its suffocating still trapped in the jacket sleeve—and the fact he can't stop sweating like they're back in Morocco filming more bloody casino scenes with Leo, surrounded by the stench of donkeys—“Yes,” he says, letting his head fall back, “Peachy.”

“I'm going to play Angry Birds and pretend I believe you,” Ellen tells him, but he can feel her glancing over to check in. She's a good person. If only his damned heart had fallen for her instead—Tom thinks he could have born her laughing in his face much better than even the idea sits with him about Joe.

Maybe if he just. Holds his phone in his hand.

Cillian hasn't moved from his position on the floor, eyes closed, half-dosing. Continuity's sake and laziness forming the perfect storm, but—that's worth a photo, surely?

And who better to send the photo to than someone who's part of the project, but not currently present?

Tom sends the picture to Joe with a hurried text of, _Srs work, acting,_ before he has time to talk himself out of it. Then he leaves the phone balanced on his thigh, fingers wrapped around the armrests of his chair so he can't send any more. Fuck.

“Do you--” Tom breaks off, licks his dry lips with a tongue that doesn't feel much wetter. “Have you ever done a—a long distance thing?”

Ellen goes very still beside him, but Tom can't even find the energy to turn his head. “Comes with the territory, doesn't it?” she says after a long moment. “Dating as an actor.”

“How—You don't have to tell me,” Tom breaks off with a sighed groan because what, what, _what_ is he doing? “How often was too often for texting? Or—how little was not enough?”

“There's no set number,” Ellen says after a long moment where he's sure she won't say anything. “It's just—whatever makes you feel good. I think.”

Everything makes him feel miserable. Except talking to Joe. “Thanks,” he murmurs, though, and means it.

Cillian starts to snore.

“Have you talked about it? Together?” Ellen asks. “If it's something that's bothering you—”

“No, it's only...me,” Tom gets out, feeling abruptly sick with the words coming out of his mouth. Joe slept with him, _several times._ Joe's kissed him until Tom's mouth felt raw, and Joe's jaw was pink with stubble burn. It takes two to bloody tango.

_I miss you tonnes,_ he types out carefully, ignoring the shake in his fingers. _I miss you bunches. Am v sad you missed Leo tripping ovr nothing ths morng. Also ellens v v smart am thinkng of askng her 2 adopt me_

He holds his breath.

_I get first dibs on adoption,_ Joe texts back almost immediately. _Ps what good is ur camera phone if u miss gems like leo tripping? For shame_

Tom has half a text already drafted— _if u adopt me thisll get weird/kinky—_ when Joe's next text comes in: _I miss you too, btw._

Tom feels like his heart is swelling—not like an infection, like a deep, fresh lungful of air after being cooped inside all day. It's dizzying. If Tom wasn't sitting down he'd sway on his feet.

“There's a smile,” Ellen comments, leaning over to catch it. “Who are you talking to?”

Tom thinks about not telling, but—it's Ellen. “Joe,” he says, and doesn't try to be careful with his tone, only careful with the name.

“Oh,” Ellen says, sitting back. Tom can feel the sudden tension roll off her in waves; he pulls himself out of his slouch, something cold in his stomach at how painfully he might have mucked this all up. But then Ellen holds out her own phone, shaking it a little so he can see it's displaying a text conversation but not what's being written. “Susan,” Ellen says, holding the name as close as Tom had done with Joe's.

“She's very lucky to have you,” Tom says, “and I hope she knows it.”

“I'm very lucky to have her,” Ellen counters, smiling down at her phone in a way that seems achingly familiar. Wherever Ellen keeps her heart, it's bound to be glowing. “And I bet your Joe feels—wait, do you mean _Joe,_ Joe?” She drops her voice down to a whisper. “Former child actor, on this set _Joe?”_

Tom covers his face with one hand. He definitely does not mean to show her his wrist when the jacket sleeve slips down his arm.

“Holy _shit,_ ” she hisses. “No wonder you've been so pissy since he left. When did this happen?”

“Not nearly long enough to justify this,” Tom grumbles, dragging the sleeve back over his heart.

“Says who?” Ellen demands. Then, when Tom doesn't answer, “It's your heart, fuck the haters.”

Tom snorts, quietly. “Joe might be one of the haters.”

“So fuck him too. Figuratively,” she corrects, clearing her throat as she looks pointedly not at his face. “He should appreciate the fact that you love him and then leave it the fuck alone. Are you going to pressure him into loving you back?” she adds, fixing him with a look.

“No!” He thought he might be able to stall until Joe fell for him in his own time, but the thought of using his heart to pressure Joe into feeling the same is—disgusting and insane.

“There you go. Make sure Joe knows that and move on with your life.”

Tom's phone pings. _Tell me more about Leo falling,_ Joe writes. _And the set and everything. R the snowsuits as hot as they look?_

_Currently shrtless,_ Tom types back, then reaches over to squeeze Ellen's hand. “Thank you,” he says, and means it with everything in his big, stupid body.

“You're welcome, you weirdo,” Ellen says with a roll of her eyes, but she squeezes back. Just in time for Joe to reply, _Pics or it didn't happen._

Tom obligingly holds the phone over his head to take a photo, pouting at the camera as he shifts his coat around to better bare his torso.

“I hope you're very happy together,” Ellen drawls, sarcasm heavy, as Nolan starts calling them back to set.

~*~

The rest of that day is heaven. He texts Joe at every break in filming, and Joe somehow manages to reply at least once before Tom has to turn his phone to silent again. It makes no sense—Joe is very busy, he left for New York to _do things_ , things that certainly don't involve answering every message the sad and lonely man he's been sleeping with sends him from L.A. But the last one of the day, the text Tom gets just as he's climbing into his car to go home, says, _Do you have a laptop with you? We could skype._

_Yes,_ Tom writes back immediately, and his leg twitches the whole way to the hotel. He takes the stairs three at a time, too impatient for the elevator, and all-but skids to a stop once he's in his room. He doesn't care about the few glances he got from the lobby—he'd forgotten they _could_ Skype, and the fact that Joe was the one to bring it up makes him feel lightheaded and giddy.

Joe's face—pixelated and a little washed-out—is the most beautiful thing he's seen in two days. Pathetic? Definitely. Tom sinks back in his chair, deliriously not giving a single fuck about it.

“Hi,” Joe says, hair stuck up in the back, smile tugging at his mouth.

“Hi,” Tom says back. The tiny square in the middle is mirroring his own face back at him; Tom can't even find it in him to tone down the relief shining in every millimeter of his features. “How was your day?”

Joe sighs, ducking his head. He looks tired, Tom realizes, more than bad light causing the shadows beneath his eyes. “Long,” Joe settles on. He stretches, rolling his shoulders back—even on a webcam Tom can see how tense they are, curls his fingers to keep from trying to reach out and touch. “Jetlag's still kicking my ass.”

“See how you like it when you've come off a commercial flight to Dubai from L.A. Sixteen hours non-stop, I felt like I could've conceived and born a child before we landed.” Joe cracks a smile, a little bit wider than before but not much. “Nah, it's the pits any way you slice it. Have you tried tea, for sleeping?”

“I'd just have to get up in the middle of the night to pee,” Joe says, hovering over the last word like he wasn't sure if he should have said 'piss' instead. Tom grins. “Is it just me or is your accent thicker?”

“Likely Cillian's doing,” Tom shrugs. “We bring out the Brit in each other. Did you get the picture I sent of him sleeping?”

“Yeah,” Joe says. He clears his throat. “How long've you two known each other?”

“Ages,” he scoffs, “Can't remember a time I didn't know him, to be honest. Since I decided to be an actor, at least. This is the first film we've ever done together, though, didn't think he'd sleep through it.”

He's talking too much, or too quickly. There's something about this line of conversation that's making him nervous, and he doesn't know what. But Joe just laughs, a sharp bark trailing off as he drags a hand through his already disheveled hair.

“It's good he can still surprise you, I guess,” Joe says. “Good to have people like that.”

“Joe,” Tom tries, slowly, “Is everything—are you okay?”

“What?” Joe says, and seems genuinely startled by the question. “Yeah! Totally. Sorry, I just. I've been in the studio the last few days and I've completely forgotten how to talk to people. Apparently.”

“You're doing brilliantly,” Tom promises, and means it. Joe isn't the one tripping over his own tongue on the way to saying something unforgivable.

“Thanks,” Joe says, ghost of a real smile shining in his eyes.

After that it's easier to relax, drifting through dozens of different topics. Even though Joe tracks their conversation better than Tom—who keeps getting lost in the curl of Joe's hair, in the hints of his dimples—there's a faint whisper in the back of Tom's mind that thinks Joe is distant, distracted. The third time Joe has to stop mid-sentence to yawn Tom finally clues in that Joe is really just exhausted.

“I should let you go,” Tom says, and when Joe tries to protest, “No, you need the sleep. And I promised Cillian I'd catch a bite with him.”

Joe rubs his hand over his eyes, weary in a way that hurts to look at. “Yeah,” he says, “Okay.”

“Miss you,” Tom says, fighting the fierce urge to touch the screen like a prison inmate.

Joe somehow finds a smile, though it's fleeting. “Same,” he says. “Have a good dinner.”

He doesn't actually have plans, but he can make them. Or he could get room service and watch shit television, mentally chastising himself for not finding a way to tell Joe about his heart. Or tell Joe that he managed to spectacularly out them bout to Ellen Page, without Joe's knowledge or consent. Oh god.

Tom rests his head against the lid of his laptop and breathes. One day he will stop making such a bloody mess of things, but it sure as hell isn't today.

~*~

Joe takes the news about telling Ellen very well—over text, because Tom is a coward and waited until the morning to send it, only partly because he knew Joe needed the sleep.

_Is it a problem?_ Joe writes back immediately. For a moment Tom imagines him as Arthur, clean-cut lines and a weapon in one hand.

_No no shes vv cool,_ Tom sends in a hurry, fingers fumbling over the keys. And then, _im still sorry,_ because it needs being said, more than once.

_We're good :)_ is Joe's reply almost twenty seconds later. It just makes it in before Tom has to turn his phone off to film.

When Tom turns it back on almost eight hours later—breaks full of Nolan and costume alterations, picking over scenes as they get ready to switch gears once more—there are no new texts. Tom sends two casual grumbles about filming while waiting for his car, and is all-but kidnapped for dinner by Cillian a moment later.

It's hard to think of anything but England and Ireland and their favorite and most hated haunts in all cities when he's with Cillian. Homesickness claws absently at the lining of his stomach but for the most part it's blissfully distracting, a well-needed reminder that Tom has friends and a life outside of the little clusterfuck he's tangled himself in.

When he goes to bed there are no new texts from Joe. Tom tells himself it's fine, and eventually falls into a fitful sleep.

~*~

The next day—day four of Joe's time off, Tom's head supplies too readily—Joe is still eerily silent. Tom breaks down and sends, _R u dead??_ during his lunch break, fighting back the cold sweat the breaks across his skin the instant he hits send. He would know, wouldn't he? If Joe were sick, or hurt?

Not physically, of course, they aren't bonded—but wouldn't one of Joe's people call Nolan's people and spread it like wildfire through the set? Wouldn't Joe call to tell him?

In any case, Tom is still feeling fairly good about his decision to tell Joe about the state of his heart. Ellen's right—Joe isn't an asshole. At worst there might be a little awkwardness over Joe not loving him yet, but surely not enough to break it off completely? Joe already knows Tom is a little bit eccentric; if Joe needs to chalk Tom's glowing heart up to his being one step off normal, then... Then whatever gives them a chance to find their way to being in love at the same time, Tom will take it.

Joe's reply comes over an hour later: _Just busy._ Understandable. Joe didn't go to New York for a vacation.

_Dont wrk to hard,_ Tom writes back, and only after he hits send does he wonder if he should have prettied up the words.

Joe doesn't text back.

~*~

Radio silence persists throughout the next day. Tom puts it out of his head with the same slogging practice he's had with ignoring cravings for decades of his life. The thought that Joe might be another addiction—that Tom might be addicted to falling in love—is so stomach-curdlingly awful that Tom feels gray.

But it's only one day. One more day. Then he'll tell Joe, face to face, let the dice fall where they will. _Isn't it odd that Eames is the gambler, but Arthur's token is a die?_ Tom lets himself be distracted by the thought, focusing until he almost forgets he'll see Joe tomorrow.

He doesn't sleep well. Spends most of the night staring at the hotel walls, absently tracing the outline of his heart.

~*~

It would be so much easier if Tom could roll over on the morning of Joe's return and find him in bed, hair mussed and face crumpled into one of Tom's pillows—Tom is sure he'd know what to do if that was the case. But Joe's flight doesn't come in until four, and unless he comes straight to set Tom won't see him until they wrap at seven. Three hours of being in the same city as Joe and not being able to see him seems like the worst kind of torment, but only when he's letting himself wallow over it.

So he sends, _Glad to see u soon :)))_ , and puts his phone away, throws himself into being the best Eames he can be. The snow suit is still hot but no longer unbearable—enough to irritate, not enough to strip—and Cillian gets to practice welling up his baby blues, which always makes him cranky.

Tom diligently doesn't turn his phone on until five minutes after Joe's plane lands, just in case Joe wanted to say he arrived safely, or something. But there's nothing, and more nothing, and Tom focuses so hard on acting that he doesn't notice Nolan being pulled aside during a take, doesn't notice until they're ten seconds past the last line and no one has said cut.

Nolan waves at the camera man, still deep in conversation with a woman holding a clipboard, so Gary's the one who calls it. “Fuck,” Cillian says immediately, squinting and blinking, “I think my contacts are drying out.”“Are you sure you aren't just leaking blue pigment from your eye ducts?” Tom asks.

Cillian scowls. “Ha, bloody, ha.”

“You've cried enough on film, you think you'd have remembered to take out your lenses.”

“I'll just walk into tables and expensive electrical equipment, shall I?” Cillian grumps, and one of the P.A.s comes over to offer retrieving saline solution and a contacts case from Cillian's trailer.

Tom's attention drifts to Nolan just as his conversation finishes. Nolan drags a hard hand over his mouth, which is already set in a thin line. “Alright,” Tom can hear him say, barely, “Thank you.” Then much louder, “Okay, ahh...Tom,” Nolan says, seemingly because Tom is the first person he's made eye-contact with. “Come here a sec.”

Tom diligently saunters over to the tune of Ellen mock-pouting over Cillian's distress. “Yes?”

“Hey,” Nolan says, folding his arms so tight across his chest that his hands wind up in his armpits; a habit, Tom's noticed, when Nolan feels like production has hit a particularly nasty snag. “You've been spending a lot of time with Joe lately, right?”

On the list of things Tom expected to come out of his mouth, this hadn't even made the page. “What?” he gets out, then coughs. “Yes?”

Is Nolan pausing filming to _out him and Joseph?_ Nolan just shifts his weight, frowning even harder at nothing in particular as he drops his volume, asks, “Has he mentioned anyone special to you?”

“Special...special how?” The second try doesn't sound so desert dry; Tom mirrors Nolan's stance partly in solidarity, partly because he feels like he needs to press his heart against his ribs as hard as he can.

“Like, is he seeing somebody?” Nolan asks, eyebrows darting up. Right, fuck, what else would he mean?

“I...” No, he's not going to out Joe again, and Joe never explicitly said anything to Tom about dating anyone, so. “No,” Tom shakes his head, frowning a little too much. “Why?”

“Hm? Oh, don't worry about it,” Nolan says, shaking his head. It's a very good thing he's not an actor; Tom has seen more convincing 'you've imagined this entire conversation' tactics from his toddler. “Alright, everybody! From the top!”

Tom goes back to his mark feeling shaky, unsettled in the pit of his stomach. His only luck is that Eames is silent through this scene, so he can focus on controlling his breathing, his expression. Why would Nolan need to know who Joe is seeing? He's never showed an interest in any of his actors' personal lives before now. Tom's pulse is racing, no matter how much he tries to calm it. This is 2009, they won't fire Joe—or Tom, for that matter—for sleeping with a man. So why did that woman with the clipboard look so severe? Why does Nolan still have a deep crease between his eyebrows?

Filming grinds on, but Tom isn't the only one with his focus shot. They only make it another hour before Nolan calls cut with a sigh. “Alright,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose, “Well it looks like we're going to have another half day to film this, at least. Cillian, we'll keep you for the last scene then see what we can work around tomorrow. Everyone else, you're done; check in before noon to find out your schedule.”

Cillian sighs expansively but allows himself to be led away for make-up retouching, while everything else starts dissolving into crew members who need to stay and crew who can pack up. The ever-changing miasma of life surrounding a film, Tom thinks, and tries to let their controlled chaos calm his nerves.

“What's the problem?” Leo asks, every inch the business-savvy producer ready to step in and smooth whatever needs smoothing. Tom and Ellen start gathering their things with one ear open, not bothering to be subtle about eavesdropping.

“Joe's sick,” Nolan says, voice low. “He collapsed this morning getting off the plane. They took him to the hospital—dehydration, apparently, he's doing his best to rally by tomorrow afternoon. We're lucky he wasn't flying commercial; the press hasn't got wind of it yet.”

There's a faint, static-riddled ringing in Tom's ears. His hand hurts, his fingers—because they're clutching his phone too tight, a phone with no new messages from Joe. Well, how could there be? He was unconscious and then, then he was in the hospital, where they don't allow cellphones, so.

His arm hurts too, higher up than his heart. It takes a long moment to realize it's because Ellen is holding onto him, her small hand a vice on his forearm as she says something that ends with, “which hospital?”

Nolan's voice sounds far away when he gives the name of the closest hospital to the airport, which also makes sense. Tom can't focus on his face right now, but he thinks Nolan is frowning.

“Can we see him?” Ellen asks. Her grip tightens, and Tom wonders if it's because she wants to keep him here or wants to keep him upright.

“I'm not—I'm not sure,” Nolan starts.

“What name is he using?” Leo asks, very calmly.

“Joe Grant,” Nolan says, hesitant and slightly annoyed. “What's going on?”

“I'll drive,” Leo says to Ellen, “You get him in the back.”

_Who in the back?_ Tom wonders, but Ellen's pulling him away, and Leo is staying to have a quick word with their director, and Tom is having a hard time remembering how his legs work.

“Are you okay?” Ellen asks, and Tom doesn't know, doesn't know, doesn't know.

~*~

“We shouldn't go,” Tom says in the car, halfway to the hospital. Leo is driving, careful with stoplights and the speed limit, and it's dark and quiet and Ellen is holding Tom's hand. He can't feel his heart.

Joe's in the hospital. Joe _collapsed._

“Sure,” Leo says, but doesn't slow down. How does he even _know_ about Tom's infatuation with Joe? If Ellen didn't tell—and Tom doesn't think she would—then Leo is far more perceptive than Tom ever wanted to give him credit for.

“You don't want to see him?” Ellen tries.

Tom shakes his head, trying to swallow. “It's not my business.”

“Right,” Leo says, nodding, and Tom dares hope someone might be on his side in this, “Hey, Ellen, does Joe strike you as the kind of guy who gets hospitalized with dehydration?”

“Not particularly, no,” Ellen drawls. “Guy seems to know how to drink a glass of water.”

The headache in the back of Tom's skull gives a nasty throb. “And yet,” he gets out.

“So the fact that Chris asked specifically if Joe was seeing anyone?” Leo prompts, taking his first sharp turn of the night. “That hasn't sunk in yet?”

“Why would there be a connect—” Tom snaps, breaks off with a sickening lurch. “He's not heartsick,” he says, lead-weight certainty sinking each word. Ellen snorts, though, and Tom fixes her with a glare. “If he is, he's not heartsick over _me._ ”

“Oh yeah, Joe's such a player, that sounds like him, right?” Leo drawls. If he wasn't driving, Tom would cuff him. “He's only been staring at you since first read-through, I can absolutely see how he'd have time to fall in love with someone else.”

That's too cruel. “Stop,” Tom says, and doesn't mean for it to come out pleading. The numbness has finally shattered, leaving a sharp, incessant pain in his heart, like someone's tracing the lines of it with a knife. Tom keeps his sleeve pulled down, breathes through the feeling that he'll suffocate, or fall apart.

“Okay,” Ellen cuts in, squeezing his hand, “Okay, even if Joe somehow got heartsick over someone else—or even if he's just regular sick—I think he'd like to see you. I think you'd like to see him, too. Come on, with all of us there we'll take the pressure off. It'll be okay.”

Tom doesn't know if he wants to believe her.

“I dare anyone to look at you twice with me in the building,” Leo adds quietly, somehow without any trace of ego. “I mean it's L.A., but still.”

For some reason, that helps. Enough that Tom can focus through the next cresting wave of pain. They'll try to see Joe, and it'll be a nice gesture, but visiting hours or family-only restrictions will keep them away, and everything will be fine. Joe is just dehydrated. When he's feeling better, when everything is back on a somewhat-even keel, he'll show Joe his heart. They'll discuss it, like adults.

Tom closes his eyes and rests his head against the cold window, vibrations of the car humming against his skin. If Joe is really heartsick over someone else, Tom will piece himself back together again. He's done it before.

~*~

Bloody, _fucking_ DiCaprio.

“Hello,” Leo says to the nurse at the front desk, his voice quiet and polite, both elbows on the counter so his hands rest naturally together, already non-verbally supplicating. “We're here to see Joe Grant, if we can?”

No Hollywood bullshit, no _acting,_ as far as Tom can see. The nurse obviously recognizes him, in the studiously bored expression everyone in L.A. wears when confronted with a celebrity. Cold sweat breaks out across Tom's shoulders, in his palms.

“Visiting hours are over,” she says, reading glasses slipping down her nose. Her eyes are sharp, sweeping over the three of them; there might be a flicker of recognition for Ellen, but nothing for Tom.

_It's okay,_ Tom thinks, _it's fine, Joe's fine, you knew this would happen_ . His heart _throbs,_ hot and inflamed, sharp enough to make him clutch at his wrist. A duller ache sets up in his jaw, clenching his teeth too hard.

“I understand,” Leo says, not pressing. “Is there a way to let him know we stopped by?”

“Of course,” she says as she picks up a pen. Tom fights back the urge to scream. It's worse, it's so much worse knowing Joe's in the building and out of reach. The nurse looks up through her lashes, pure professional when she adds, “Who should I say came in?”

“Ellen, Leo, and Tom.”

There's something in the way he says Tom's name—saving it for last, making it heavier—and at first Tom thinks that's why the nurse pauses, pen hovering over her notepad. Then she puts the pen down.

Her eyes find Tom's by way of the tight grip he has on his wrist, dark and intelligent. “I was here when they brought your friend in,” she says, very carefully. “He was pretty out of it, but I heard him asking for a Tom.”

Tom feels the whole world tilt on its axis.

“Can I see him?” He doesn't know how he got his voice to work. He thinks his vision is going gray.

“Only bonded partners are allowed past visiting hours,” she says with a pointed look, eyebrows high.

“They're pre-bonded,” Ellen jumps in.

Tom sees the nurse's eyebrows twitch a little; it's not her they might need to convince anymore. “Clearly,” is what she says, though, because—

Because Tom would have known the instant Joe was sick if they were bonded. It's likely he would have collapsed the same instant Joe did. He certainly would have been at the hospital a lot sooner, beating down the doors.

But then, Joe wouldn't be hospitalized with heartsickness if Tom had been his bondmate. Heartsickness comes from wanting and longing and not getting—Tom can't imagine being bonded to Joe and not giving him the world.

Fuck. Tom has never even felt Joe's heart, or let Joe touch his. They're as pre-bonded as transcontinental penpals.

The nurse holds out a piece of paper for him, and Tom takes it with shaking fingers. _Rm. 214_ , it says. “Can you make it there?” she asks. Her name tag says _Nancy_ , and he feels horrible for only noticing now. “Or do you need someone to go with you?”

“We'll walk him down, if that's alright,” Ellen says when Tom can't make his throat work. “We won't go in, just make sure he gets there okay.”

Some small part of Tom wants to fight—he's a grown man, he can walk down a few hallways—but Leo's hand is already on his other arm, and Nurse Nancy is giving a slight nod of her head. And maybe his knees aren't working as they should. They almost give out in the elevator, but he isn't expecting the sudden swoop of engineering, or the brutal reminder of the damned _Inception_ script: _ARTHUR, crouched in ELEVATOR, BRACES for impact._

When they're on the second floor it's easier, somehow. His feet feel planted. He can count down the numbers until room 214. Easy. Leo and Ellen let go, and he can stay on his feet. He can knock on the door, and just as quietly, open it.

Joe is half out of bed, one hand to his chest to keep the flimsy hospital gown in place, one foot dangling down toward the floor.

“Tom?” His eyes are wide, so wide Tom almost misses the deep circles under them, actual _bags._ His skin is painfully pale, lips chapped, and he looks at Tom and flinches with his entire body, yanking himself back onto the bed.

“Joe.” Tom's hands are frozen in mid-air, trapped when they'd been reaching out. He swallows; his whole throat feels raw. “Hello.”

“What are you—” Joe pulls the blankets up over his legs, eyes still pinning Tom in place. The gown has come untied in the back, trying to fall down his shoulders. “Sorry, I thought—they said visiting hours were closed...”

“They are,” Tom says, because it's _true_ , not because he realizes it sounds _really creepy_ once he's said it. “No, I didn't—I didn't sneak in,” he stammers, “The nurse, she said it was alright. To see you.”

It's weak and pathetic, the worst _Mum said I could_ that has ever fallen out of his mouth. Joe's fingers twitch against his chest, the rest of him painfully still.

Tom takes a breath. “Are you alright?” _He's in a hospital, idiot, of course he isn't—_ “How are you feeling?”

“Like shit,” Joe croaks, something gone soft and hidden in his eyes.

Tom nods, and takes a very small step toward the bed, testing the ice. Joe doesn't move, doesn't shy away, so Tom risks another step, and another.

“You look good,” Joe says when Tom is roughly a foot from him, halting Tom in his tracks. There's an off note in Joe's tone, discordant. “Really good. Well-rested. Bet you haven't fainted once today.”

“Wouldn't want to upstage you,” Tom tries, teasing, but Joe's gaze drops.

Joe breathes, huge and shivering at the edges when he lets it out. “Thanks for checking on me. I'm fine. Just dehydrated. Doctors said the recycled air on the plane didn't help—”

“Is that all it is?” Tom knows it isn't—but if Joe doesn't want to tell him he's heartsick then, then it's possible that Joe isn't—that Tom's not—

But _fucking, bloody christ._ Tom made it this far. He can be brave enough to take this last step. And if Joe is in love with someone else then he'll fucking well _survive._ “Joe, are you heartsick?”

Joe looks as though he's been struck. His fingers slowly curl into a fist, and Tom realizes he's not clutching the gown at all. He's shielding his heart.

“Yes,” Joe says, lips curled in a snarl. “ _Yes_ , alright, so _fuck off._ ”

In a bar fight in his early twenties, Tom was kicked in the throat. This feels alarmingly similar. Chocking on nothing, and the sharp relief of air once he's fought for it. He's still fighting for it now, but it'll come, he'll be able to breathe once he leaves the room. He will. He has to.

But he can't move with Joe looking at him again, even if it's only a brief, cringing moment. “I'm sorry,” Joe says, “It's not—it's not your fault.”

Tom tries to nod. He needs to move before the graying spots in his vision escalate.

“I'm sorry,” Joe says again, pleading this time. Tom's heart lurches. “I didn't mean to fall in love with you so fucking _quickly_.”

His voice breaks on the last word, and Tom's world comes to a screeching halt.

“What?”

But Joe's rubbing at his chest, wincing, lashes wet as he gets out, “This'll be better, right? A clean heartbreak? Shit, it seems like swallowing nails would hurt less—”

Tom trips over his own useless feet getting to the bed, almost falls on top of Joe when he reaches for him. “Oh god,” he stammers, “Joe, oh please don't, it isn't what you think, don't let your heart break.”

“What do you mean?” Joe's eyes are wary and huge, but he's letting Tom clutch at his free hand, the one not still covering his heart. Tom can't help himself, presses his mouth to Joe's knuckles and then his forehead, trying to pull enough air into his lungs now that he can.

“I mean—oh buggering fucking hell, Joe, I love you too.” He's such shit at this. His voice is cracking. “I love you too, I do.”

Joe's confused shock radiates from him, leaves his lips parted. “ _What_? No, you can't,” he cries, trying to pull free—Tom doesn't know how to let go, though for Joe's sake he's trying. “You aren't sick! You look fine!”

“I'm not. Fuck.” Tom laughs, trying to drag his sleeve over his eyes before any tears spill over with limited success.

Joe's fingers are suddenly frantic at his arm, trying to push his jacket up over his wrist as he grits out, “You're not supposed to keep it covered if you're sick, you _idiot—_ ” Only to come to a stuttering halt when Tom's heart shines up at him, gold-white and healthy and as bright as the sun.

Joe's fingers go slack on his skin. “You aren't sick.”

“No,” Tom agrees, “No, darling, I'm not. But I was. God, I was half way to hospital before you even left.”

“Over me?” Joe sounds like he's clarifying, but his face says he can't believe it, utterly baffled.

“ _Yes,_ over you. My heart hasn't stopped glowing since our first night out—why'd you think I ran away? And never slept over?”

“I don't know,” Joe says, eyebrows knotting together, “Maybe because it was just casual, maybe because you don't sleep well without a bed to yourself, maybe because I started snoring, maybe a _million other reasons_ that don't include the same exact thing I was dealing with, because this is _insane._ You love me?” Tom's hands frame Joe's face perfectly, even more perfect when Joe leans into the touch.

“I was going to tell you,” Tom says, feeling the truth of it spilling out and setting the words in concrete, “I think it's the only thing that kept me from getting heartsick. I stopped planning for the ways you'd say no. I hoped I'd convince you to let me hang around you, hopelessly in love until you either loved me back or broke my heart. Stupid plan.”

“Hey.” Joe knocks their foreheads together. “Which of us is in the hospital? I wasn't going to tell you. I thought I could keep it secret. I was trying so hard not to tell you. And then I thought—you were having such a fun time with Cillian, I thought I'd back off, let you guys...reconnect...”

Tom can't help the strangled noise that works free of his throat. Joe, over-analytic Joe. “ _Cillian?_ Me and Cillian?” Some part of him wishes he wasn't crying and laughing at the same time, but he can't help it. “I'd sooner lock lips with an old tennis shoe. Are you sure you wouldn't rather be in love with someone less weepy? Leo's out in the hall, I can call him in—”

Joe kisses him, and it's wonderful. Joe kisses him even though he's crying, even though he's a hopeless softhearted wreck. Joe kisses him because he loves him. Everything is impossible and impossibly perfect. Tom feels infused with warmth, from the ventricles of his heart to the roots of his hair.

“So we're both stupid,” Joe murmurs against his mouth, pulling back just far enough to say. “Stupid and in love. Fuck, I think your tears are contagious.” He laughs and it comes out a little broken and wet, but still inescapably happy.

Tom shakes his head, trying to scrape himself into something coherent. “Christ. Okay. How are you feeling? Other than in love with me, which should be a certifiable condition—is your heart alright? Don't you need to let it breathe?” A flicker of guilt zips across Joe's face. Tom narrows his eyes. “Giving me grief about keeping mine covered—you're the one in hospital for heartsickness.”

“I had it uncovered until you came in,” Joe says, rolling his eyes a little. He tugs the nightgown lower, peeking beneath the fabric. “And it's a lot better now that, um. We've. Yeah.”

“Pulled heads from arses, yes,” Tom supplies, half-distracted because—there's Joe's heart.

It's still in rough shape, inflamed lines like a tattoo gone wrong, dull red veins creeping from Joe's heart up to his clavicle, across his ribs, reaching for his bellybutton. Tom can imagine all too well what it must have looked like when Joe was brought in; his stomach clenches, too empty to roll.

But it's glowing. Golden and steady. Bright enough to sting his eyes.

“I promise it looks a lot better than it did,” Joe tells him, as if he has to apologize for the state of his heart.

Tom passes his hand over his eyes, letting out a breath as steady as he can make it. “Joseph, I'm so sorry. If I'd told you when it happened none of this—”

“Hey, I thought we agreed we both fucked up,” Joe counters, fiddling with the tie of his gown where it's pooled in his lap. “And anyway, who expects _this_ to happen? Outside of shitty romcoms?”

It seems impossible that they aren't touching. Especially when all Tom wants to do is climb up there with Joe and hold him until he feels like they both won't shake apart.

“Do you,” Joe starts, because he might actually be a mind-reader, “Do you want to...? If I shift forward, then you could...”

“Yes,” Tom says, “Yes, perfect.”

The bed is already inclined a little—Joe hits a button to steepen the angle a bit while Tom sheds his jacket, stuffing his bracelets into his hip pocket. He hesitates with his hands on the hem of his t-shirt, looking to Joe. Joe nods so hard his head looks like it might fall off and bounce across the floor. “Off,” he says, “Yes, off, now.”

Tom yanks it over his head and scrambles onto the bed behind Joe; the frame is so narrow that his legs dangle off either side, but Tom couldn't give less of a fuck. Not with Joe leaning back against him, hips cradled between Tom's thighs, skin on skin on miles of wonderful skin. Joe-as-Arthur always holds himself so angular and narrow; it feels like a bloody miracle to feel the whole long sprawl of Joe, the breadth of him.

His left arm fits around Joe's waist easily, pulling him back until Joe rests all his weight against Tom's chest with a pleased sigh. He can feel the rise and fall of Joe's breathing, tension draining from the muscles in his back. Joe smells exactly the way Tom remembers at the nape of his neck, honey and some darker spice.

“Good?” Tom asks against his shoulder. Joe's answering shiver comes a second too late for Tom to remember the way Joe reacted to the feel of stubble dragged across his skin; he grins, and he knows Joe can feel that too, just from the way he squirms.

“Ticklish,” Joe grumbles, deftly turning the wiggle into casually settling . Tom won't fight him on the fib, not with Joe lacing their fingers together over his belly. Tom hooks his chin over Joe's shoulder to watch Joe trace the irregular bumps of his knuckles.

His breathing hitches when Joe tugs their hands up further, toward the exposed and healing expanse of Joe's heart. “Do you want to?” Joe asks, tilting his head just far enough that Tom can see the quirk of his eyebrow.

“Yes,” Tom says, kissing the curve of Joe's cheekbone since he can't quite reach the cheekiest part of him. “Do you want me to?”

“Yeah,” Joe sighs out, going even more boneless, “Yeah, I really, really do.”

He lets Joe guide their hands higher, rough fingertips brushing the thin skin of Joe's stomach and ribs. Higher up there's a soft patch of dark hair Tom only got a glance at in their previous adventures in shirtlessness, and just below that is the brightly glowing bundle of Joe's heart.

“It looks tender,” Tom murmurs, hesitating, but Joe only huffs and says, “I'll let you know if it's too much,” before he settles Tom's hand over his heart.

Joe heaves in a breath like he's been downing and only just come up for air, back bowing with the effort. The heat of his heart is immense; Tom feels tendrils of it all the way up to his shoulder, his collarbone. His teeth ache, like tasting copper, all the still-healing tenderness of Joe's heart.

“Holy,” Joe lets out on a whooping exhale. “That's. Intense.”

“Too much?” Tom asks, starting to pull away.

Joe holds him in place, wings of his shoulderblades flexing as he curls protectively around the place where they're joined. “It's a good hurt. Promise. Like stretching when you really need it.” He moans a little, back of his throat, and Tom buries his face against Joe's shoulder, feeling like the room is spinning.

“You next,” Joe says, almost slurring. Tom knows if his own eyes were open he'd see that Joe's eyes are shut.

Tom swallows thickly before he can answer. “I'm set.”

Joe sits up, Tom's hand falling from his heart as he twists around. Tom misses the heat instantly, even more so when it's replaced with Joe's fiercest eyebrows yet.

“You don't want me to touch your heart?” Joe asks in a way that says he knows that's not it. “Or you're being noble and self-sacrificing in the face of my dainty fainting spell?”

“It wasn't dainty, you're in hospital,” Tom protests. Joe's already absconding with his right arm, grip careful on Tom's elbow and down his forearm, stopping well above his wrist. Tom knows Joe won't touch without asking permission, but knowing doesn't stop the anticipation in his stomach from coiling even tighter.

“In _the_ hospital,” Joe mutters, carefully turning Tom's arm to inspect his heart. Tom butts his head against Joe's shoulder and lets him look his fill—there isn't a valve or a vein Tom doesn't know by heart (ha), every patchworked vascular inch of it carved into his mind from staring at it these last few days without Joe.

“Beautiful,” Joe says, thumb tracing the edge.

“Like staring into a torch is beautiful,” Tom mumbles. “I promise, beneath the glow it's a right mess.”

“I don't care what it looks like,” Joe says with another look over his shoulder. “It's yours. Can I touch it?”

Tom stammers out an affirmative feeling roughly fourteen years old. And maybe Joe elbows him accidentally, or maybe he's blushing and feeling the ridiculousness of the situation too. That they're both grown fucking adults and so fucked at communication and feelings that they wound up here.

Well, Tom thinks as Joe leans down to press a gentle kiss to Tom's heart, there are certainly far worse places to be.


End file.
